


gets my blood going

by marzipan (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hounds of Baskerville, M/M, more vampcroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-08-22 20:17:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16604792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/marzipan
Summary: more scenes fromsymbol of my undying love, where Jim discovers Mycroft's a vampire and thinks it's a hoot - except now he's offended Mycroft doesn't want to bite him





	1. don't eat civilians

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BorrowedSilence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BorrowedSilence/gifts).



“So,” Jim asks. “Do you have a favorite blood type?”

 

The line goes dead. 

 

He pouts, but his moment of self-pity is interrupted by a whimper. 

 

Jim turns back toward the one-way glass wall behind him, where four individuals are currently housed. It’s not a bad setup, per se. It’s a bit like a reality TV situation, all in all. 

 

Just that in this event, instead of getting voted out of the flatshare, you’d be fed to a vampire. Oh, and that instead of auditioning for the show, your health data was hacked and the best candidates were then kidnapped. 

 

But you know, close enough. In fact, this housing situation was likely less stressful than a  _ real  _ reality TV setup.

 

Jim snaps a picture, and then texts it off to the number he’d just called.

 

As predicted, his phone rings almost immediately.

 

“So? Which one of them was it that got your blood pumping, pardon the pun? Don’t tell me it was the blonde!” Jim affects a scandalous gasp. 

 

“Mr. Moriarty, what is it you think you’re playing at?”

 

This is Mycroft’s exasperated voice, which is nicer but not as eventful as his angry ‘you’ve crossed a line’ voice, but still not what Jim is going for, which is  _ hungry. _ He’d yet to see the man - no, not a man, a  _ vampire _ , ha - in some sort of animalistic frenzy befitting rumors of his kind. 

 

“I just want to get to know you,” Jim sighs, leaning hard against the wall in a way that conveys his languor to absolutely no one. 

 

“Well, know that I don’t go around sinking my teeth into random civilians,” Mycroft says drily. “I’ve other ways of sourcing sustenance.”

 

Jim perks up. That was telling indeed.

 

“What, blood banks? Blood  _ farms?  _ Mycroft Holmes, are you growing humanoids in your kitchen?” he asks, excitable.

 

Mycroft hangs up.

 

A moment later, he gets a short text.

 

_ Release them to the safety of their homes. MH _

 

Jim frowns.

 

_ Right away. MH _

 

_ What will I get, if I do? _

 

It’s a longer wait this time, but the reply finally comes:

 

_ A photo. MH _

 

His reply comes immediately.

 

_ Of what?! _

 

_ Not until I have proof they’re safe. MH _

 

Such a hassle. Soooo annoying.

 

.

 

When the photo comes, a full day after Jim has sent proof that all four healthy bodies were delivered home without trouble, it’s not even a good bloody one.

 

Jim frowns at the thumbnail, a black and white thing that looks to be some old scan. Then he clicks on it to enlarge and - oh, they’re dental x-rays. A photo of Mycroft’s mouth might have been more fun (and more suggestive), but this was more enlightening. Look at those incisors! He wasn’t going to find these in any medical text anywhere.

 

_ My! What big teeth you have XX _

 

_. _

 

“A hound?” 

 

The bartender-slash-innkeeper, Gary or something, perks up as Jim leans an elbow onto the bar.

 

“Local legend,” he says in a good storytelling voice. “Been haunting the locals for decades. You’ll hear it howl when the night falls and the fog sets in, and every once in a while someone reports glowing red eyes in the dark. Or someone goes missing.”

 

Jim does his best to look like he’s scared, but trying to hide it. 

 

“Gosh,” he says, wiping the spilled beer from his sleeve. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with that big military base R&D center you’ve got at the foot of the hill would it?”

 

“Or worse,” Gary continues over him, “the bodies show up days later, drained of blood.”

 

Jim pauses in his needless dabbing.

 

“What like, because their heads got cut off?” he asks.

 

“No,” Gary says with a laugh, before leaning in to whisper, “like something out of a vampire story.”

 

.

 

Jim swipes his swiped ‘Mycroft Holmes’ ID badge and waltzes onto the Baskerville Military Base, whistling in the darkness. 

 

He taps the camera feeds and sensors so that he can wander unimpeded, and then sets off to snoop around.

 

“I’m Mycroft Holmes, I don’t eat random civilians,” he says in a silly parody voice as he rummages through the lab. “But when I do I leave them lying around a small local village to drive tourism in the boonies, for Queen and Country.”

 

He stops to examine at a framed photo on the desks of one of the scientists - a little girl holding a fluffy, white rabbit.

 

“Bunnicula!” he whispers. 

 

“Boo.”

 

_ “YAHH!”  _

 

Jim grabs his heart and clings to the wall behind him and absolutely  _ does not _ flail. He comes face to face with Mycroft’s reprimanding expression, and does his best to smile.

 

“Mr. Holmes! What an honor, fancy seeing you here.”

 

“What did you think would happen after you swiped my ID?” Mycroft says in that posh, only-slightly- _ minorly- _ bothered drawl of his. 

 

Jim narrows his eyes. “How did you get here so quickly?” Then his eyes light up. “Were you  _ following _ me?”

 

Mycroft only gives him a cool smile, and then does something that seems to send a chill through the air, and an echo suggesting the rustling of thousands of wings.

 

“Guess,” he says.

 

“No way,” Jim blurts out. “Shut up.”

 

Mycroft doesn’t say a thing.

 

“Bats? Really? Show me!”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Oh come on, I’ve already discovered you’re creating an army of undead bunny rabbits with taxpayer money, and you think showing me  _ bats _ would be giving too much away?”

 

“I am doing no such thing,” Mycroft says. Then he frowns, and takes the photo frame from Jim’s hand. He peers at the little girl and her bunny.

 

“Huh.”

 

“What? I was right, wasn’t I?”

 

Mycroft gives him a funny look, then sets the photo down.

 

“Seems like someone’s been stealing test subjects,” he muses. “Congratulations, Mr. Moriarty, you’ve earned yourself a  _ job _ .”

 

Jim blinks, looking between the photo and Mycroft.

 

“You couldn’t possibly...”

 

“Oh yes.”

 

“I’m not stealing a  _ rabbit _ for you, Count Mycroft, much less from a little girl’s bedroom.”

 

“Don’t be silly, they must keep it in the living room. And I have never once been a count,” he sniffs, then looks down his nose at Jim. “I thought you’d jump at the chance to lay your hands on  _ Bunnicula _ .”

 

Jim regards him skeptically.

 

“Is it really..?”

 

“Not in so many words,” Mycroft sighs. “But dangerous in other ways.”

 

He holds out his hand. Jim looks at it for a moment, then puts his own hand on top. 

 

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “The  _ ID, _ Jim.”

 

Jim pouts, pulling the stolen badge out of his back pocket and slapping it into his hand.

 

“You’re such a killjoy,” he complains.

 

Mycroft just uses the badge to open the next door.

 

“Come on, I’ll show you the vampire octopuses,” he says, and Jim perks up.

 

“Please tell me you’re not kidding,” Jim says, following. “And they’re  _ octopi.”  _

 

.

 

Sherlock Holmes rolls his eyes at his laptop and rolls bodily off his sofa in the most dramatic way possible, telegraphing his desolate boredom across the flat.

 

“BORED!” he shouts, just in case the movement didn’t fully convey the fact. 

 

John Watson, who’s just walked into the living room from the kitchen, plate of toast in hand, looks down at Sherlock.

 

“No, really? I had no idea,” he says.

 

Sherlock slaps his ankle out of spite (and because it’s the only thing he can reach) and John stoops to look at the laptop -  _ his _ laptop - and check the messages.

 

“Oh look, here’s one about a missing bunny rabbit.”

 

“ARGH.”


	2. I would have been delicious

The car door closes heavily, leaving Jim and Mycroft sitting in the back of a rather spacious, government-issue (likely bullet-proof) SUV.

 

In the dark, Mycroft’s eyes glow, just barely, making his usually pale blue eyes take on a rather eerie edge.

 

Jim stares, a bit transfixed, and Mycroft catches him doing so.

 

“I’d be happy to offer you a ride home,” Mycroft says, trying to break the moment. He so  _ hates _ to rely on his undead disposition to get things done, and it would feel like an empty victory should Jim Moriarty become a brainless puppet just because Mycroft happened to be careless as he looked into his eyes. 

 

Jim blinks - twice, quickly - seeming to shake himself out of his stupor. Then he does the stupidest thing, and scoots even closer to Mycroft. Mycroft frowns. Jim’s eyes drop to his lips, as he bites his own.

 

Jim leans forward, and against Mycroft’s better judgement, he lets him.

 

He kisses him.

 

Jim’s lips are soft, exploratory, tentative. When he pulls away, Jim’s face is flushed.

 

The car stops.

 

“I’ll be taking my leave here, Mr. Moriarty,” Mycroft says, straightening his already perfect tie. “Good night.”

 

Jim just gapes at him, and Mycroft quickly closes the door behind him before the expression turns thunderous, cutting off his indignant protests.

 

His phone buzzes immediately.

 

_ What are you, a vegetarian??? _

 

Mycroft groans.

 

_ You can’t tell me you weren’t JUUUST a bit tempted. _

 

He’s not going to reply to that.

 

_ I would have been delicious!  _

 

_ I hope you’re regretting this now. _

 

The messages cease, presumably to let Mycroft stew in his regret.

 

_ Just what part of me was NOT incredibly appetizing? _

 

_ I need to know. _

 

_ Mr. Holmes. _

 

_ Mycroft. I can call you Mycroft now, can’t I? _

 

_ Mycroft. _

 

The phone rings. Mycroft lets it go to voicemail.

 

_ MYCROFT! Pick up! _

 

He sets it to silent.


	3. vampire hunting

_ So, what’s the vampire equivalent of a dick pic?  _

 

_ Do you guys send each other photos of arteries? Fangs? _

 

_ You DO have other vampire friends, don’t you? _

 

_ I’m only asking because I’m assuming you can’t get it up. _

_ What with the low blood flow and all. _

_ That’s the only reason I can think of for you turning me down last week. _

 

_ Tell me otherwise, I dare you. _

 

The Prime Minister blinks owlishly at Mycroft, who takes his buzzing phone out of his jacket pocket to silence it.

 

“Please, go on,” Mycroft says.

 

.

 

Around noon, a harried delivery boy bursts into Mycroft’s office, Anthea hot on his heels.

 

“Yes?” Mycroft asks, managing to sound both polite and deathly terrifying in just one syllable. 

 

The delivery boy turns white. Anthea catches up. 

 

He fumbles to open the insulated box he’s carrying on his back and flips it open to take out a white styrofoam box.

 

“Lunch,” he says with a gulp. “They were very clear about it getting here on time, else my job’s on the line. And all.”

 

Anthea levels him a look and snatches the box out of his hands. Then she turns an apologetic look toward her boss.

 

“He  _ did _ get through security, so, not a bomb,” she says. Mycroft gives her a, frankly, sarcastic smile. “I’m so sorry, sir. He just barreled into the room and I didn’t feel like tackling the man.”

 

Mycroft rolls his eyes and waves the delivery boy off, accepting the package from his assistant. He already has a bad feeling about it. Not bioterrorism bad, but.

 

He waits until Anthea is out of the room to open it.

 

A single packet of blood. He reaches down tentatively and picks it up. Still warm. A little note stuck to the back flutters down onto his desk.

 

“Just a taste of what’s to come! Winky face,” Mycroft reads. 

 

There’s also a little straw with its own place in the box, the kind of the end cut off at an angle to create a sharp point should you want to stab it into your juice box. 

 

He stares at it for a moment longer than he’s willing to admit, then drops the bag back into the box and closes the lid.

 

“Anthea,” he calls. “I’ve some things that need incinerating.”

 

.

 

“So? Am I as delectable as you dreamt I would be?” 

 

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose, still holding his phone to his ear.

 

“I had it destroyed, of course,” Mycroft says.

 

“You what!” 

 

Jim is currently lying on an ornamented chaise lounge, which he thought appropriate for the situation, however long-distance this was. He munches on a chocolate chip oatmeal cookie - and it really is chocolate chip this time, unlike the last two, and whoever decided putting raisins into cookies should be hanged. He decides to tell Mycroft as much.

 

“After all that trouble I went through!” Jim complains. “I gave blood, all by myself! And I had to get my own cookies, because these stupid ones had raisins in them. My blood sugar is your problem now, Mr. Holmes.”

 

He says this through a mouthful of chocolate chip, so Mycroft’s not actually sure what he’s saying.

 

“I can’t believe you would waste perfectly good blood,” Jim reprimands. Nevermind that Mycroft has good reason to suspect it to be contaminated, whether it came from Jim’s arteries directly or not. “Where are you going to get lunch now?”

 

“I have ways,” Mycroft says. He  _ does not _ tell Jim he in fact did find a random civilian to snack on, nor the fact that he’s having blood alternatives under R&D in a lab. If regular humans could subsist on Soylent, why couldn’t he create something for himself too? Do away with hunger and appetite and eating and drinking all together. Think of all the time he would save! More time to channel into world domination. 

 

Jim just tsks.

 

“You’re far too solitary to have a regular,  _ live _ source to feed on,” Jim starts, and Mycroft shudders, because he kind of hates that word. It sounded so...primitive. “Which means you’re either drinking out of bags anyway! Or,”

 

He’s quiet for a moment, then has an epiphany.

 

“That assistant of yours??” Jim asks with a gasp.

 

“What? No!” Mycroft  _ hired her _ because of her credentials. Not her blood type. He refused to become a stereotype.

 

“I think,” Jim says over him, repeating himself louder as he grows excited about the idea, “I  _ think _ I have a proposition for you.”

 

“No, Jim, I’ve already decided.”

 

“I  _ think _ you and I should become regulars.”

 

“You  _ are _ aware of how unsavory that sounds, aren’t you?” Mycroft snaps. A proposition indeed! “Are you even listening to yourself? Do you hear the words that come out of your mouth, when you talk?”

 

“I think I could make things very convenient for you, Mr. Holmes,” Jim says solemnly. “I am willing to be available whenever you need, in exchange for lots of exciting tidbits on the life of the undead and supernatural.”

 

Mycroft hangs up.

 

.

 

A murder is reported in the papers the next day, front page because of its sensational nature. A body was found lying in the middle of the road, completely drained of blood, and with two puncture wounds in his neck. 

 

The blood wasn’t taken - or at least, not far. 

 

A few feet away from the corpse are the words CALL ME, large and written in blood that was at least an hour dry by the time the body was discovered. 

 

“This better not be your doing,” Mycroft snaps. 

 

“Why is it that you think every terrible thing comes from me!” Jim shoots back, offended.

 

“You  _ didn’t _ leave a message in the streets to call, then?”

 

“No, no I did, that was me.”

 

“Well?”

 

“Sherlock is not adopted,” Jim says. Mycroft freezes. If his heart was capable of beating more than 30 or so beats per minute, it might have been pounding.

 

But - whatever Jim Moriarty had found, it wouldn’t have been more than what Mycroft had dug up himself, which was truly not a lot.

 

“Mycroft Holmes is very clearly the biological older brother of our nation’s favorite detective, and there are childhood photos and records and everything to back it up,” Jim presses on. “You know what I think this means?”

 

Mycroft doesn’t answer.

 

“I think you were  _ turned _ . You’re not centuries old, are you? You’re barely older than you really look. Only a decade older than Sherlock, from what your kiddie photos show.”

 

He drifts off momentarily.

 

“Unless you age...tell me, are all vampires baby gingers? Is that where the sun thing comes from? Is that what the umbrella is for?” Jim sounds harmless enough, and Mycroft could almost be lured into thinking he’s merely curious again if not for his warning. “I want answers, Mycroft Holmes, if that’s really who you are, or the streets will be awash with blood.”

 

“That’s a threat, then?” He tries to sound unaffected.

 

“If you won’t answer to me, I’ll blow up a vampire conspiracy so big the mainstream press will be asking questions, and so will your brother. You said he doesn’t know, didn’t you? Well, he might now!”

 

Jim huffs, waiting for Mycroft’s response.

 

“I need to know that anything I tell you directly won’t leak,” Mycroft finally says, voice quiet. “You realize your threatening to expose such matters to the public at large doesn’t increase my faith in your confidence.”

 

“But I am  _ so good _ at keeping secrets,” Jim whispers. “You know I am.”

 

Mycroft rubs his temples. It is patently unfair that even as a vampire he is capable of suffering headaches.

 

“Give me a few days to think about it.”

 

“A day! One! One day,” Jim insists.

 

“Alright, one day. I’ll call you.”

 

“I’ll be waiting!” Jim signs off with a cheery smack of the lips.

 

.

 

“I wasn’t always a...minor official,” Mycroft starts haltingly, complete with nonsensical hand gestures that seem to illustrate what a hard time it is he’s having.

 

Jim leans forward on the tiny round table, and the porcelain tea set between them rattles. They’re in a smoky tea room, a private one at the back of a swanky hotel. The walls are dark velvet. It’s all very atmospheric, Jim thinks, and he gives Mycroft points for the appropriate storytelling setting.

 

He waits.

 

“And as such, after my...studies, I found myself traveling,” Mycroft says, like he’s inventing the story as he goes. He squints, as if poorly attempting to remember a lie, and Jim snorts.

 

“You mean that while normal university students travel abroad for spring break and come back with STIs, you were recruited into MI6, sent on a mission, and came back with vampirism?” Jim asks, sitting back.

 

Mycroft looks slightly relieved. He’s not very good at telling this story, because the detailed version is that he was very much caught off guard, and woke up in an abandoned and empty electrical room, with no recollection of the events that led up to it. He’s also not very good at telling this story because he more or less decided no one else would ever hear of this embarrassment, period.

 

“Something like that,” he says, fiddling with a spoon. “A post-Soviet state with poor record keeping. I’d narrowed it down to a potential set of people, and it turned out none of them were vampires. They’re all dead now, anyway.”

 

Jim regards him curiously, and Mycroft sighs.

 

“Truth be told, it was simple. I was ambushed, knocked unconscious, bit, and woke up a vampire. He didn’t disguise himself as some spy or track me over time, it was almost certainly a random hit,” Mycroft said. He’d likely not have thought so years ago, but now, he’s speaking from experience. Sometimes you just want a cookie, and people, so slow and silly as they wander down the street, well, it’s a bit like strolling through your private grocery store. It was almost certainly a random hit. Mycroft did it himself, all the time.

 

“But you needed to figure out how it worked,” Jim presses. 

 

“Yes, and I did. Feeding your blood back into the victim is common in popular fiction, and not entirely wrong, though it does include a bit of what seems to be occult magic,” Mycroft says. He gestures vaguely to his chest, indicating he’d woken up with symbols carved into it. Jim narrows his eyes as if he could will x-ray vision into his repertoire, and see the scars under his shirt.

 

“I’ve a few contacts as well, but they would all like to be left alone, and I plan to honor their wishes,” Mycroft adds.

 

Jim’s quiet for a moment, as all this sinks in. Mycroft gives one of the pastries a longing look, but doesn’t oblige. He  _ could _ eat, but it was uncomfortable and tasteless and mostly done for appearances.

 

“That’s it,” Jim breathes. His face is serene but his eyes gleam with a sort of madness. “I’ve had a change of heart.”

 

Mycroft frowns.

 

“I’m going to become a vampire hunter,” he says in that same soft voice.

 

“You -  _ what?! _ ” Mycroft nearly spits out his tea.

 

Jim nods.

 

“Yeah. Forget consulting criminal, oh no, this time tomorrow, my business cards are going to say: Jim Moriarty, vampire hunter. The one who turned you? I’m going to find him, and pin him down with stakes.” Jim sighs happily. “And you’re going to help me.”

 

“I most certainly will not,” Mycroft says more out of reflex and principle than anything else.

 

“You have to,” Jim insists, as if he has a genuine argument. “Otherwise, I’ll have to hunt you too.”

 

Mycroft rolls his eyes and looks heaven-high with exasperation.

 

“And now we’re back to square one.”

 

Jim pauses in his plotting to spear a cream puff with a fork.

 

“You can’t eat, can you?” he asks. At Mycroft’s sour expression, he smirks. “I see - you can’t taste it. Well, what if  _ I _ ate a bunch of sweets, and then you bit me? What then?”

 

Mycroft rolls his eyes and stands from his seat. 

 

"Wait!”

 

“I am going home now.”

 

“We have to set a meeting! To talk about hunting vampires!”

 

“Goodbye, Jim.”


End file.
